2001 or something

The prince loaded the gun. Three days until the ball, and three day in which he would kill the girl and the other prince, by dehydration. As he loaded the bullets into the his gun he was aware that his mouth was already cracked and dry, the only liquid in this room would be urine, but even that would dry up eventually.

And so as he turned the key in the role of host, to his unknowing guests, the prince felt his lip split as he smiled. The pain behind his eyes becoming unbearable.

The girl was flirting with everyone in the room. He didn’t want this, and couldn’t bring himself to create revenge, although in the dark hours later, he would crave it desperately. A single tear welled up in his right eye, but he mopped it away before it became visible.

The inside of the tent was spattered with blood, photos were strewn everywhere. This was in complete contrast to the performance he had just witnessed. A bevy of young girls and boys performing the nativity. Was he Herod? The man who had ordered the children dead? The sickness shocked him, like an unforeseen kick in the face, and reminded him of film noir movies from the 1940’s. Classics, not the “re imagining” shit that Hollywood churned out today. No. Not today, but these days. Ah fuck it. The smell was obnoxious. Health and safety would have a field day. Then a song struck up… Jesus Christ Superstar was the next piece. Oh fuck. What if the dream was write? Write? Right surely? Oh god, my brain is going to scream, I must get inside. He thought, scrambling towards the crumbling stone outhouse.

The girl was now sat on his knee. A large German dressed in outrageous leather shorts. On the TV, he noticed, a video flickered. Concentrating, he noticed a long walk taking place, corpses dismembered themselves, the blood was congealed, they were rotten already, and the flute was playing jazz, was it in his head? Or was it real. He switched off the TV and the room went silent.

“No 42” he laughed “come on no 42… you little ripper” The girl laughed, but was embarrassed. “Stop it” she said, now looking annoyed. The flute was so loud now.

The whole situation was more that he could bear, and he imaged streams of blood, steam rising from their wounds The gun stabbed the man in the face and shoulders, blood pushing onto the walls, in between shots, the knife glinted silver in the romantic candle light.

He sat in the dark of the party, and spoke to his imaginary girl, based on an idealised beauty from his younger years, the difference was, now she was virginal, yet flawed enough to be equal. It didn’t change the fact that she was non-existent. He sat in the drive way of the party, he prayed for a lift to get his out. He knew in the darkness the girl was ruining things. His paranoid rage pulling at his gut, pain punched the back of his eyes, the dehydration of the cold steel was unbearable. He smashed the beer in his hand and his flawed beauty whispered consolations of sweet intention to him, in order to make his the abuser. He was the abused. And across the familiar field, she came. Intoxicated beyond control and smelling of aftershave. He never wore it. ”Bitch” he muttered. Fuck. The Germans wondered. He wandered over to the group, they all chattered like they hadn’t a care, he knew they did. AIDS was on a rise and they were all bi-sexual. The dehydration in his mouth hurt so much, and he could taste blood.

Tears welled up his eyes, but as usual he pushed them away. He felt like he was a child, crying to himself as the parental figure and he blocked out the cries. Fuck. Why couldn’t he just swallow his shit, and stop being such a fucking idiot. He pushed everyone who mattered away, and now she was off with a bunch of people he didn’t know. This felt like the equilibrium. But it wasn’t was it? He imagined that he wasn’t such a fool, but the 80’s hit playing in the background was very humbling for the decade of excess. He wished he could believe the songs words, but ultimately they lacked credibility. He passed a piece of fingernail around his mouth, using his tongue. The song built to it’s crescendo. What a fantastic word. The heat of his skin was building, building, building and it burst. He punched himself in the head, wanting to bash his own face into a pulp. It was her fault. That’s what every compulsive fool said. The small flies prevented him opening the window. Her beauty was abstract in this sense. Rage was a metaphor, for nothing. Absolutely nothing. Bullshit, he thought “hmmm… bullshit” he said aloud, maliciously. And he was taken aback when the voice sounded feminine. His eyes hurt and kept blurring in and out of focus. He was lonely by default, and why was the song on repeat and so loud, did he not know he had a fucking headache.

FUCK OFF. He hammered the top of his head, why did he have no one? BUT A POINT TO PROVE. FUCK OFF. The song had begun again. Oh god no. Please change it, but what else is there to listen to? Everything else is so fucking depressing, but the happiness is forced, fake and meaningless. Why will no one respect my rage? Because it is inconsequential you fucking idiot. If only I could tell you to fuck off. But you can’t right? Yeah, if only.

“your angst sickens me” the both said. The male voice was bitter and cynical, and in total contrast the girl sounded sympathetic and caring.
“… I fucking hate that word.” He muttered back, seemingly loosing control of his situation, but they had forgotten about his knife. He was in control.
“the guilty always do”. Snapped the girl harshly.
“I don’t have to hear you”.
“oh, alright” said the male voice, his voice soft and delicate.
“you’re both just voices in my head”.
“oh, alright” Said the girl, sounded deflated.
“and what a lovely head it is” the male voice said sarcastically. And he despite the fact that he pretended not to have noticed, the girl was pulling foetuses from a sack of soil in the corner. He couldn’t see the male.

The sleeve of his jacket smelt of pickled onions. Why? He hadn’t even seen a pickled onion in over six years. And he couldn’t say he had missed them. The feeling they left on the tongue was most undesirable. And then his thoughts flashed back to the matter in hand. Anathema. What was it? He was aware of the urgency to resolve this conundrum. And there was another one, these were not words that he had ever used in thought. And for a second he wondered what the hell was going on, his face itched uncontrollably, to scratch would redden the skin and admit defeat. The girl wasn’t there. She must of snuck out when he wasn’t looking, that’s if she ever existed in the first place, either of them. The floor was wet. Wet with blood.

It was if he had done it by default, although he mused that default made it sound like an excuse, which in essence it was. He cocked his head, the erratic jazz sax had faded back through to the familiar bout of up lifting eighties optimism, but it’s edge was vicious. As he fainted from blood loss, his mind wandered from the room.